So Far Gone
by MachoMango
Summary: A slight Sherolly with a look inside Sherlock's Mind.


**So Far Gone**

Sherlock's feet sunk into the snow. The snow (once white) was now stained with the mud from people walking through the park on their way to whatever event was happening. Though the park was full of these people, Sherlock was not one of them. Sherlock was different, special, and extraordinary even, but no one seemed to notice that. They saw the freak in him. The sociopath hidden under 8 feet of lies. Bitter, sickly sweet lies and no one noticed that.

Sherlock's face was cold and his lips were chapped. His face was a shade of rose, and his eyes had dulled to a pale grey. The winter weather had been worse this year than expected and that hadn't helped his mood any. In fact, Sherlock hadn't had a good mood in a while. No one noticed as Sherlock often could be seen in this way, but on the inside Sherlock was hurting. If anything, the thoughts were coming back, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much more he could take.

Sherlock had started to make his way back to Baker Street when he heard a familiar call. The voice was more of a shriek and was unfamiliar, but the word weren't. "It's Sherlock Holmes, the real Sherlock Holmes!" He turned around so quick that his hair bounced with him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!"

"By golly, it is!"

"Sherlock saved my Aunt!"

The swarm of people started running to him, the feet under the crowd ran fast, faster than Sherlock could. So he stood still understanding he had no hope of fleeing.

The questions came like flies in his head, asking him what he was now doing, and praise for his past works. He started to answer but was soon overwhelmed. He marched right out of the crowd as if it was a parade. The crowd stood as still as Sherlock had. He could see in their eyes that they were offended, but he continued on.

The flat was dead silent when he returned. It often was now. He wished that the silence meant something to him, something meaningful. Sadly all it brought back was dark days. He slowly started to peel off his soaking coat when his phone began to buzz. It practically stung in the silence. He reached into his pocket to check his phone but stopped himself. It wouldn't be John, it wouldn't be Irene, what chance was it that it was anyone he actually cared about. He tossed the phone onto the table. The caller started to leave a message but Sherlock had left for the kitchen before he heard what it was.

The food in the fridge was rotten. The food in the cabinet was stale. Sherlock plummeted into the nearest chair. The chair was John's old chair and the 6 inches between the two was obvious when he sat in the chair. Still, it was his favorite chair in the flat. He stared off at the wall for a few minutes, until suddenly an anger rose in him. Anger. Anger so deep that any possible signs of happiness were pushed into a deep oblivion. Suddenly the chair turned, the table flipped and Sherlock ran to entry way. He slammed his large palms into the door. They stung but he hardly noticed as he continued his rampage. His phone fell to the ground and cracked and in a fist he stuffed it back into his pockets. Tears rolled down his patchy face and they burned against his cheek. Back in the kitchen Sherlock grabbed the gun from above the pantry door. Checking for bullets he put the gun to his head. The trigger was directly under his finger, everything felt possible.

Molly knocked on the door in a rhythm. Two sharp knocks and one short one. Sherlock never noticed, but she always did that. It was sort of a secret between her and the door. She waited. No noise. Silence. Ugly silence. First he didn't answer her call, now this? She pulled a brown bobby pin from the threads of her hair and began to wiggle it in the lock. She started to call to him. "Sherlock? Sherlock it's me, Molly!" The door started to creak open. She peered her head in. Nothing. She started to work her way inside. An odd smell reached her noise, cooking. Sherlock must be cooking! She began to make her way to the kitchen when she stopped dead in her tracks. Sherlock lying dead on the ground in a crumpled heap.

An ear piercing scream came from Molly. So loud the dead would wake. If only. She ran to his crumple corpse. She rested her hand under his neck, feeling for the pulse of life. His cold neck rested lifelessly on her hand. Her face buried into his sturdy chest. "Why Sherlock? Why?"

The dirt under Molly's feet felt hard and brutal. The tears stung her eyes. The freezing wind and remains of snow nipped her ankles and burned her collarbone. The coffin stood only a few feet away from Molly, but she hardly dared to go closer with so many people around. The preacher stood only a few feet away praying with another family who she knew for a fact Sherlock had never met. Though the ground was sad and somber she sat. Sat on the cold hard ground and waited.

Most people had left a while ago and now only a few people lingered by the coffin. She shakily got up and worked her way over. "um. Hi, Sherlock. It's me. Molly. I uh don't know if you knew this when you died, but Sherlock. I love you. I love you like a lot. So please if you get bored up there.. feel free to come down and uh.. you know, hang out with me. O.K.? Sherlock I love you."


End file.
